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André was the darling of Atlético Madrid.
At seventeen, he'd become everyone's favourite. He joked constantly, played pranks on teammates, radiated warmth wherever he went. Even Griezmann—who'd always been somewhat reserved around the squad—had grown close to him.
Which was why Griezmann was the first to react.
He'd been closest. He'd seen everything.
The moment André collapsed, Griezmann sprinted toward Mesa and shoved him hard in the chest.
"What the hell did you do? You murderer!"
He was about to throw a punch when the referee intervened, stepping between them. Sevilla players surrounded Mesa—not to defend him, but to shield him from escalation. Even his own teammates couldn't justify what he'd done.
Sevilla's captain, Navas, tried to calm the situation.
"He didn't mean it. I swear he didn't mean it."
The referee didn't hesitate. Straight red card.
On the touchline, Atlético's medical staff examined André's ankle. Their expressions told the story. A signal to the bench. The referee waved for a stretcher.
Simeone was beside himself.
"I should have taken him off after the second goal. I should have—"
"Diego. It's not your fault." Burgos gripped his shoulder. "It's already happened."
"He's seventeen. Seventeen."
"I know."
Burgos didn't say what he was thinking. The angle of that ankle was burned into his memory. As a former player, he understood exactly how catastrophic such an injury could be.
As Mesa walked down the tunnel, objects rained from the stands. Bottles. Scarves. Whatever the Atlético supporters could throw.
Even the travelling Sevilla fans remained silent. Anyone who understood football recognised the malice in that challenge.
The victim was a teenager. A generational talent. A tackle like that could end a career before it truly began.
Sevilla's manager, Caparrós, stood frozen on the touchline. He was a coach who prided himself on developing young players. If Mesa had belonged to any other club, Caparrós would have condemned him without hesitation.
Now he didn't know what to say.
The match resumed, but neither side had any heart left.
The referee blew the final whistle without even completing a full minute of stoppage time.
Atlético Madrid 2-0 Sevilla.
Champions. With a round to spare.
But there was no celebration.
At the press conference, Simeone spoke briefly.
"This wasn't a foul. This was a crime. He tried to end a young man's career. A player like that shouldn't be allowed on a football pitch. He's a danger to everyone around him. We will appeal. If the Football Association tolerates this behaviour, it will be a tragedy for La Liga. A tragedy for Spanish football."
He left immediately. Nothing mattered more than André's condition.
The Wanda Metropolitano should have been euphoric. Five years since their last league title. Instead, silence hung over the stadium.
The image of André's twisted ankle was seared into every supporter's mind. The players barely acknowledged the crowd before disappearing down the tunnel.
Nobody felt like celebrating.
In the ambulance, André regained consciousness.
The physical pain was overwhelming—but something else eclipsed it entirely.
Terror.
Pure, paralysing terror.
He'd been here before. Not in this life. In the one before. The memories flooded back: the injury that had destroyed his football career, the spiral into darkness that followed.
If you looked closely at his eyes, you saw only fear.
Mendes had been watching the match. The moment André went down, he understood the severity. Within minutes, he was on the phone to Cristiano.
Cristiano didn't tell Dolores. He couldn't. Not yet.
By coincidence, Serie A had just concluded. He requested emergency leave from Juventus, gathered Georgina and Santos Junior, and flew to Spain alongside Mendes.
Fernando Santos, Portugal's national team manager, had also been watching. When the tackle happened, he hurled his remote at the floor.
Anyone involved in football knew what that ankle meant.
Within an hour of the final whistle, "murderer" was trending across Spanish social media.
Mesa was ostracised by the entire football community. The footage of his challenge was broadcast on every channel. Coaches and players from across La Liga spoke out.
For once, even Barcelona and Real Madrid were united.
Zidane addressed reporters: "If a player like this cannot be severely punished, it represents a regression for our sport. An insult to everyone who works in football."
Valverde echoed the sentiment: "This wasn't a foul. It was a crime. Such a tackle shouldn't exist on a football pitch. Such a tackle shouldn't exist anywhere."
The condemnation was universal.
But none of it could undo what had happened.
In a Madrid hospital, André lay staring at the ceiling, fighting the darkness he'd thought he'd escaped.